


the eyes have it

by laudatenium



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Artist Steve, Eyes, Irish Steve, M/M, Tony's got expressive eyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 08:15:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3374285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laudatenium/pseuds/laudatenium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternatively, "I wanna touch the light, the heat I see in your eyes."</p><p>---</p><p>The sunglasses were his first armor, really, if he thinks about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. and the grand façade, so soon will burn

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative title and chapter titles from "In Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel.
> 
> Okay, really, I get pissed when people say Tony's some asshole with no feelings. Like, he's had to hide them for years, and really never says what he really means, and people can't see . . . .
> 
> This was majorly inspired by Robert Downey Jr., because FUCK, does that man have expressive eyes. Whenever he's having some sort of shouting match in any of his movies, he always looks about ready to cry. Ugh, people can't see that maybe action stars can actually, maybe, ACT?

He learned very fast to wear sunglasses.

 

He wasn’t overly sensitive to sunlight, as the lie he told people said.  Sure, they helped cope a bit with his waking up with massive hangovers and _immediately_ needing to get ready for some other thing that would also have him wasted by the night’s end.  Plus, they’re fashionable, and no “How to Get the Look” is complete without a listing for ridiculously overpriced sunglasses.

 

The Tony Stark Aesthetic: three piece bespoke Italian suit, Italian loafers, some personalized scent that made him want to retch when he opened the bottle, sunglasses.

 

All lies, but that’s what his persona was, really.

 

 

 

He’s drunk, because of course he is, a shithead teenager who just made his first real friend, when Rhodey looks at him, points with a crooked finger:  “Y’ve got _r’ally_ ‘spressive eyes, Tones.  Like, _fuck_ , yerr a li’l asshole ‘o always looks like yerr ‘bout ta _cry_.  _Are_ ya ‘bout ta cry, Tony?  D’ya need a hug?”

 

Rhodey gives him a hug anyways, because Rhodey is a perceptive, affectionate drunk.

 

He starts wearing the sunglasses after that, because now he understands why his father always said that SI would go down the drain after he died, because he had a son who wore his heart on his sleeve.

 

 

 

Things change after the glasses.

 

The slick smile works now, because no one can tell that it doesn’t reach his eyes.  Contracts go through, because it’s a lot harder to call his bluff.

 

Women and men fall over themselves, and into bed with him.  They don’t really look at him, seeing only momentary pleasure and a possible payoff.

 

He doesn’t encourage eye contact, keeps people distracted long enough for him to leave them in the bed (it’s not his bed, not really), and goes where JARVIS protects him from harm and people knowing that there’s some part of him that grows blacker and blacker, shriveling and languishing from lack of attention.  

 

And he thinks that if he neglects it long enough, that if he starves it, it will die, and he won’t have to deal with it.  It never dies, though, and he wonders if it might just kill him.

 

And only Pepper and Rhodey know, so they’re the only ones who get to see him in his workshop, in sweats and tank tops, no sunglasses, no armor.

 

The sunglasses were his first armor, really, if he thinks about it.

 

 

 

When designing the Mark II, he debates on how he should see out of the fucking thing.

 

He gives himself eye slits, with mirrored panels, so no one can see anything of an unguarded expression. 

 

So no one can see he might not be an impassive façade, he constructs one of his own.  It just so happens to fly and shoot bad guys.

 

 

 

Pepper knows, but then again, she knows more about him than he knows about himself.  She puts up with his shit for ten years, only for him to wake up to what’s in front of him.  But he makes her CEO, and he gets distracted by his role as Iron Man, and it doesn’t work.  They’re both people prone to distraction, and what they both need is someone who can stay focused on what’s important.  They’re good together, but it’s no better than they had as friends.  They both need the same thing, which they’re kind of incapable of giving.

 

They break up before it gets really bad, and Tony’s grateful that they can have what they do.  She deserves someone who can give her more than a kiss goodbye in the morning or distracted mutterings as he runs from the room to try out a flash of idea.

 

She tells him that, if he really wanted to, he could be a wonderful partner, husband, father.  But with someone who can appreciate sitting with him as he does his genius thing, someone who can handle being put on hold so he can work on the suit, someone who’s willing to be there with him, just there, and can be happy without getting angry at his distractions.  She never could  accept not having his full, undivided attention.

 

“You need someone who will be right there when you come out of the fog.  And, as much as I’d like to be, I _can’t_.  I don’t have the patience, nor the time.  I love you, but we have to look objectively at this.”

 

He understands, and he accepts that romance isn’t the best thing they can be for each other.

 

It doesn’t stop it from hurting like a motherfuck, though.

 

 

 

Steve’s an artist.  Tony had never really thought about it.  Well, he _knew_ , saw Steve’s transcripts from that year of art school, knew every little detail he could get his hands on because, hello, Daddy Dear lauds this specimen of masculinity, and Tony only ever was noticed in his shortcomings.  (So what if he had a massive want of the icon praising him for _himself_ , then would lay him out and _make love_ to him.  Ugh, he was such a sensitive sap during puberty.)  Howard even had several sketches purportedly done by _Captain America,_ charcoal and graphite pristinely framed, hung on the walls of the study that reeked of cigar and cognac.  He would sit on the floor when Jarvis would clean them, and was occasionally allowed to rub the damp cloth smelling faintly of vinegar over the glass, before passing it back to Jarvis, who would correct his smudges, then hang the frame back on the wall, over the rectangle of unstained wood paneling.

 

(Sometimes, he would sneak in and look at the drawings, balanced on the back of an oxblood armchair.  Always signed  _S. Rogers_ in the lower, right-hand corner, and he had been so betrayed, felt so lied to, until he learned Captain America had a actual, real human person name.)

 

So when Steve moves into the Tower, and Tony sees him curled up in an armchair, sideways with his legs thrown over the side, a multimedia sketchpad on his lap, graphite stick and smudger in his fingers, Tony allows himself a moment to think “Well, they weren’t lying then”, and goes back to getting his coffee.

 

 

 

He notices things, and it irritates him.

 

He shouldn’t see certain things.  Maybe five years ago, it could be excused.  Playboy, sex fiend, all that. 

 

But now he has six foot two of _the_ hottest human he has ever seen in his house, _and he wants to cuddle with it_.

 

But the hotness and potential sappiness, he could handle.  What he can’t handle is how Steve seems to be able to sense the threshold between “I’m in my genius groove” to “I’m neglecting my mental and physical health”.  He’s patient though, bringing Tony food, and moving him to a couch when he falls asleep over a lab table.  He can’t handle that Steve knows exactly when Tony’s had enough socializing, and lets him be as he wards off others from bothering him.  He can’t handle when Steve asks him “Are you okay?”, because he’s not asking “Have you eaten today?” or “Have you slept recently?” or “Is something bleeding?”  He’s asking “Are _you_ okay?”, and Tony always has to lie, because he’s _never_ okay, but Steve would try and fix it.

 

And Tony now knows what Pepper meant, about patience and care, and he doesn’t _want_ to know, was fine not knowing, because now it’s sitting next to him on the couch, making snide comments he never would have expected, and he notices how bright that smile is, and wonders if that serum had teeth whitener as one of its properties.

 

 

 

But that doesn’t bother him as much as _Steve_ noticing things.

 

Okay, granted, in the field, it’s a godsend.  He’s got a tactical mind like no other, something that was obviously there from the beginning, because there’s no way a chemical mixture could rewire a brain to see and analyze all possible movements in a fraction of a second.

 

But Steve’s perceptive outside of the battlefield, which makes him more dangerous.

 

“Tony, why are you always wearing sunglasses?”  The inquiry comes from the breakfast bar.  Steve’s eating a mixture of about a dozen scrambled eggs, fried kale, and bacon.  Instead of either hating modern food or forgetting the old, he mixes it and makes them feel like shit when he’s happy that he _has_ food.

 

“I, ugh, hangover.”

 

“Tony,” Steve frowns, and damn, he’s too smart for his own good, “you barely drink anymore.”

 

“Well,” he bites out, “didn’t you ask me not to?”

 

He flees to his workshop, because _feeling_ hurts.

 

 

 

All of the Avengers received a card upon their arrival at the Tower.  The card, made personally by Tony, is made of a unique, microscopic aluminum – plastic compound, and acts as a keycard, credit card, homing beacon, another sharp edge for Natasha to slit throats with, and a ton of other things that Tony is still waiting to unveil.  The only thing that’s really taken advantage of is the unlimited credit balance.

 

“No limit?” Clint asks questioningly, glaring at the card with distrust.

 

“No limit,” Tony confirms.

 

Barton goes out and buys the most expensive commercially available yacht the next day, and returns it after seeing the card is approved.  Tony gives him a limit after that, but mainly because he wants to be a dick.

 

Bruce is exceedingly grateful in his humble way, slightly embarrassed when Tony thrusts it into his hands.  He has no other money, as the government seized his assets when he went on the run.  He uses it to furnish his living floor with calm, soft things, bamboo plants, and a bunch of yoga things, like a zen garden and a heavy hemp rug with huge, smooth river stones embedded into it, that apparently you walk on.  Bruce also purchases some nice kitchen things, a decent wok, bamboo utensils, and a frightenly large selection of special teas.  (Tony slaves away for a couple hours in his auto CAD to make a tea steeper that is of the Hulk resting his arms on the rim of the cup.  Bruce smiles and uses it all the time.)  He gets a decent wardrobe, soft button ups and khakis and a couple of nice suits and a tux from a tailor Tony recommends for press conferences and formal occasions.  After that, Bruce rarely uses the card for anything other than ordering supplies for the lab.

 

Thor is too very grateful, as Asgardian wealth translates to zip on Earth.  Thor’s far more conservative than Tony expected, but it was always fun to snoop the charges to see what Thor had been getting himself into.  Spa visits and theme parks and a bunch of hipster restaurants, because the god of thunder turns out to be a complete foodie, who knew?

 

Natasha turns out to be the biggest spender, but it’s mainly for appearances.  Tony discovers that she bitches _a lot_ when she’s mildly comfortable around you, and one of her biggest peeves about being in the spotlight isn’t the comments about her sleeping with everyone or her being out of her depth on a team filled with men (both are hilariously untrue), but the critiques of her wardrobe.  Every tiny improvement Tony makes to her uniform has the fashion watchers hemming and hawing, and downright outrage when she decides to lose the ridiculous cleavage in favor of a built-in sports bra.  Tony has Pepper hook her up with the best designers, so whenever a red carpet events roll around, Natasha can drown them in their tears.

 

Steve doesn’t even use his card at first, relying on his Army back pay, until Tony tells him to donate it to charity or something, and fuckin’ use the damn card already.  Gradually, the money makes its way to a variety of veteran and underprivileged kid help organizations, and Steve redecorates his floor, in pale blues and tans and warm wood.  And he sets up his spare room as a studio, but he still leaves paint dried on the table in the kitchen, and wipes his fingers covered in multicolor chalk dust on the couch.

 

He leaves out sketchbooks, too.

 

Tony looks, because he has no sense of personal boundaries.  Just ask Pepper.

 

The cover’s worn, the cardboard fraying around the bent spiral binding.  He can’t tell what brand it once was, because Steve painted over it and it reads something about seeing tomorrow shining in your eyes.

 

He frequently sees Steve lugging this specific sketchbook around, hauling it down to Tony’s workshop and drawing for hours, talking only when Tony comes out of his fog long enough to tell he’s down there.

 

He shouldn’t have looked, because it’s filled with _him_ , half finished sketches of him in a billion poses, sleeping and eating and inventing.  There are pages devoted to his hands, his mouth, his _ears_ , for chrissakes.  And his eyes, penciled in black and drown, with a coil of gold burning off the page.

 

“You drew me,” he says simply when Steve finds him.

 

“I did,” Steve says slowly, like he’s trying not to spook him as he sits down cautiously next to Tony.

 

“You drew my eyes.”

 

A hand that’s a good two degrees hotter than usual human temperature grips the side of his face, and his sunglasses are slid gently off, baring the way to see the slate blue eyes of the other man.

 

“Your eyes are _beautiful_ ,” Steve says, inferno hands still griping the sides of Tony’s face, a thumb moving to press gently yet firmly at the corner of Tony’s left eye.  The thumb hovers a bit, brushing lightly over the lashes.  Tony helps by fluttering them so they brush over the pad of his thumb.

 

Steve traces the ridge of his brow with his forefinger, circling the thumb down to the bone ridge at the bottom of his eye socket, all coiled strength and still so _gentle_ , like Tony is something he could very easily break, but finds too precious to handle roughly.

 

“They're so _full_ ,” Steve says in wonder.

 

“Full of _what_?” Tony asks, even though he’s scared for the answer.

 

“ _Things_.  Thoughts and feelings and secrets.  Most eyes are blank.  Yours are full.”

 

So he doesn’t over think it, and just presses his mouth to Steve’s, soft and plush and wet, because he licked his lips, like he wanted Tony to kiss him.

 

It definitely seems like Steve wants this kiss, because he hasn’t let go of Tony’s face, kissing back with a slow, burning fervor.

 

Tony opens his eyes while their lips are still meshed together, and sees Steve looking, eyes beseeching _Please don’t hide from me._

 

 

 

Later, when Tony’s panting and Steve’s got three fingers in his ass, and Tony’s doing as he always does, closing his eyes and burying his face in the pillow, Steve stops.  Tony whimpers, looks up to see those too-blue eyes staring defiantly at him.

 

“Stop hiding.  From me.  Let me see you.”

 

It would seem awkward, keeping an intense eye contact throughout sex, but Tony does as he’s asked.  It isn’t any of the ridiculous no-blinking stare downs, Steve doesn’t complain at the flickering eyelids and rolling eyes when he presses on Tony’s prostate, but he always finds Steve’s gaze again.

 

His vision whites out as he comes, but he keeps his eyes open, wondering what Steve will see.  He comes down with Steve spooned into his side, pressing butterfly kisses to Tony’s eyelids.

 

They look at each other, and neither of them says a word.  It’s too early yet, to put a name to this thing swelling between them, warm and silky and _right_.  It’s comfortable, in a way he never would have believed.  It’s something he refused to even believe in for so long, but it’s filling some empty space that always ached and he never understood why.

 

 

 

They keep step as the DJ plays Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” as everyone watches from the sides of the dance floor.

 

 

 

As the years pass, he finds more and more snapped pairs of sunglasses, and he stops replacing them.

 

The only ones he wears indoors now are the cheap neon frames with the bits of black translucent plastic that Clint got at the dollar store.

 

And it’s only because Peter pouts adorably when Daddy teasingly says “No” when the toddler holds out the green pair with the lenses shaped like hearts.


	2. the resolution of all the fruitless searches (in your eyes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's another one.

The reason he wanted to become an artist is something a lot of people have always asked.  They always question how he came to the conclusion that a poor Irish kid should pull himself out of poverty through _art_. 

 

Well, he hasn’t got the body for a day laborer.  So what if he dreams a bit?

 

Ma would tell him sometimes, about when her family had saved up enough for her ticket on the boat, her sister Treasa had left two years before, and she was supposed to go with his aunt, but their father had died, and it took a while to save up again.  Aunt Theresa (as she became when she landed at Ellis) had offered to wait, but his mother had told her to go ahead without her.

 

How excited everyone had been for her.  Or jealous, but they would hide it behind smiles.  She said she could tell by iciness in their pupils and tenseness around their eyelids.

 

She had nothing but a wool coat, felt hat, and a carpet bag when her mother and Uncle Peadar had traveled with her to Cobh (even if the English had renamed it Queenstown, Cobh outdated any English queen).  She had cried and waved as she boarded, trying so hard not to lose sight of them, but the blur of her tears and the itchy redness had forced her to dig out her handkerchief, and by the time she had cleared her eyes, she had lost them in the press of the crowd.

 

She had cried with the others upon the disappearance of Fastnet Rock, then focused on the rippling red, white, and blue above her head.

 

_There was no point in trying to look back anymore._

 

On the boat, she and the other passengers had discussed the change if names that so often happened.  His mother had been born Sorcha, and the English equivalent was Sarah.

 

She had cried bitterly when, two months after her arrival, she received a letter from his grandmother, who informed her very gently that Uncle Peadar had passed, and had been sick for a while, but he had forgone medicine to save up for her passage to the States.

 

She had shown him the letter.  _Do not worry.  He was happy to sacrifice.  You now should honor him by becoming a successful American._

 

And by his grandmother’s standards, they were successful.  Even with his Pa gone, and the scrape to pay the rent every month, American poverty was preferable to Irish poverty.

 

Sometimes, he would ask her what she would have named him if they lived back in Érie.  She would smile, eyes like the soft blue of her church dress.  _No, sweet, living here changes everything._   He had begged, and she asked him if he wanted an Irish name.  He had nodded vigorously, hard enough to feel the bones jar in his skull.  _Well, some part of me wanted to name you Peadar after my uncle.  It translates to Peter, the rock.  A sure foundation.  But I named you Steven.  Hmmm, it is unusual, but how about Saoirse?_   He had asked what it meant.  _Freedom_ she laughed.

 

He had introduced himself as Saoirse at school, and the other children had laughed.

 

_You don’t live there anymore._

 

He had reverted back to Steve, but the cruel, flat blackness in their eyes was never forgotten.

 

 

 

Steve notices Stark seems to actively avoid eye contact.  Nothing new about that.  People in the twenty-first century are not fond of looking people in the eye.  Whenever he tries, an uneasiness seems to come over them.  (He wonders if the reason Fury is such an effective interrogator is because he’s not afraid of looking anyone in the, _ah_ , eye.)

 

But Stark seems to almost _discourage_ it.  He seemed to issue an aura of _You’re not worthy to meet my eyes_.  It’s awful, to think a man could believe that about himself.

 

Until they’re shouting in each other’s faces, and Steve sees, actually _sees_ , that this man, for all of his bluster and largesse, is lost and probably in excruciating pain.

 

Afterwards, he’s careful as he can be.

 

He knows what it’s like to be lost.

 

 

 

The more he watches, the more he can see the bluff.

 

He has to admit that Stark has it under control.  He makes sure to catch every news story the man is on, and the entire set up is perfect.  Hair, suit, smirk, ubiquitous sunglasses.

 

It’s an act, and that hits him like the North Atlantic.

 

It’s an _act_ , this isn’t a real person, or if it is, it’s certainly not this guy.

 

He starts to call the man he met “Stark”, and the person beneath all the layers “Tony”.

 

 

 

He _gets_ it, because he’s not seen as a person anymore.

 

He’s _the Captain_ , he’s the Icon, the Living Legend.

 

He has no feelings.  He can’t feel pain.  There’s nothing screaming in agony in his head, there’s no drowning emptiness and isolation.

 

Peggy’s there for him, except when she’s gone.  Natasha becomes a friend, but there’s another person in her as well, but the real woman is far better obscured than he or Tony could even try.  She’s started peeling away some of her layers, but he’s certain that she has much farther to go with herself before she could reveal it to anyone else.  And as close as they might be, he does not feel the best person that should be there for _like that_ , at least not at first.  She and Barton are confusing, but they seem to be connected on some _other_ , and he’s happy they have that.

 

He’s man enough to admit when he’s jealous.

 

(Fury, it seems, gets that he’s a real person as well, but he doesn’t count, because he only knows it so he can exploit Steve.  And he doesn’t like being used.)

 

People older than him call him their childhood hero.  They give him their veneration.

 

And all he wants is a friend.

 

 

 

Of course, they move into the Tower, and the isolation dissipates.

 

But while the feeling of emptiness from isolation is gone, another emptiness fills him, one that can only be filled with snide remarks, sleepless nights, coffee, and dazzling cognac eyes.

 

 

 

He draws, because he can’t figure out anything better to do.

 

He’s sitting on the couch in Tony’s lab, sketching idly, when Tony lifts his welding goggles and asks if he wants to get lunch.

 

Steve looks up, and bare eyes meet his, violet pouches beneath and well-kept brows above and wiry lashes around.

 

Tony’s looking at him, and he can _see._

 

He’d grown up surrounded by people claiming blue eyes were so gorgeous, because they show such emotion.

 

But looking at Tony now, he knows that it depends on the person.

 

Because the liquid mocha he sees is filled with more emotion than he’s ever seen.

 

They’re _comfortable_ , a warm mahogany that reminds him of the worn beads of his mother’s rosary.  Someplace safe, someplace warm, someplace when he was understood.

 

Or, as Tony shuts down and leaves the room, mumbling apologies for some reason, someplace that has the potential.

 

 

 

He can’t stop himself from drawing the man.

 

He draws him active in his lab, dancing around and _creating_.  He draws him asleep, when, during movie night, Tony curls into his shoulder and drools a little.

 

He draws constantly active hands, the unceasing mouth surrounded by stark lines, the tiny curl of hair that shows up when be forgets to cut it, dipping into the curve of his ear and the hollow of his neck.

 

(He draws him naked, from the flashes he has seen and decent guesswork.  It’s a guilty pleasure, but not one he would apologize for.  It’s not a selfish want.  Well, not entirely.)

 

His eyes.

 

Tony reveals them so little, but when he does, they burn right into his soul, searing a place in his heart with no permission.

 

He doesn’t mind.

 

They’re brown, but that’s not a sufficient descriptor.  They’re brown like soil, like decay that gives everything new birth.  Brown is death and life and rebirth.  You just have to wait long enough.

 

Not dirt.  Soil.

 

There’s wood too, hard but alive, something sturdy yet sloping and beautiful.  Something that man has yet to recreate and probably shouldn’t.

 

There’s red there, too.  Very dark, and only tiny rods amid the brown columns.  Dark, dark red, not purple enough to be called burgundy, because there is no cool color even hinted at.  Completely warm, almost too hot, like they could melt anything, and those sunglasses are protecting others, rather than him.

 

Crimson.  Not the flashy metallics he sprays on his suits.  Dark and warm.

 

There is metallic there as well.  Gold and copper and bronze and brass.  Most metals are sliver.  There is no silver.  Only infinite degrees of warm.

 

And the metal isn’t solid.  It’s liquid, melding and shifting with ideas, emotion.  Like the heat in them has raised the temperature so high that nothing can be solid ever again, after being subjected to these eyes.

 

He realizes why he hides. 

 

Eyes like that can’t lie.

 

He wonders what Tony’s trying to hide.

 

He has his hopes.

 

 

 

He finds a song, because he looks for songs that mention eyes.

_There is a voice that has no name_

_It comes with evening, or behind the rain_

_“I have no time now, to stop and explain;_

_I just keep movin’ ‘cause it helps to ease the pain.”_

_The night has music that calls to me_

_Across the canyons of an endless sea_

_I seek the shadows of yesterday;_

_Today can’t hold me, and I must be on my way_

_Speak to me softly, but tell me no lies_

_I see tomorrow shining in your eyes_

_“I have no time now, to stop and explain;_

_I’m just movin’ on ‘cause it helps to ease the pain.”_

 

He doesn’t know where the similarities to himself end and Tony begin.

 

He paints the lyrics on the Tony sketchbook.

 

 

 

Tony tries to hide from him, until he sees the sketchbook holding Steve’s heart.

 

The eyes that enrapture him are confused, scared, worried, terrified, but Tony’s the one who leans in first anyway.

 

The emotions subside somewhat, replaced with wonder, disbelief, hope.

 

And if Steve _accidentally_ steps on the frames where he dropped them in his rush to gather Tony in his arms hand carry him upstairs, well, Tony doesn’t comment on the snap.

 

 

 

The gold filament in Tony’s eyes is burning so bright Steve wonders if it might burn out.  But it won’t, he knows.  It’s burning from that newly opened gulf of love, and the fuel will never burn out.

 

Peter is small.  He knew babies were small.  But not _this_ small, and it worries Steve slightly, that all this love will crush the boy.  So much hope and expectation heaped upon him.

 

But Steve slides a finger into Peter’s plump fist, and the tiny fingers grip him surprisingly tightly.  He yawns, tiny plump mouth forming an “o”, and he opens his eyes.

 

He can’t see, but they’re warm.  Steve presses a kiss to Tony’s brow.  A brown they’ll never say no to.

 

How funny, when they comment on his red-white-and-blue heart.  If they cracked it open, all they would see is brown, threaded with red and dipped in gold and copper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Saoirse" is pronounced SEAR-sh. Sorry, Irish Steve is a weakness of mine.
> 
> I cherish comments, so if you kind of want to . . . . Please?

**Author's Note:**

> And, curtain. I probably need therapy.


End file.
